


Unsettled

by Triora



Series: Altaria, Our Star [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Human/Pokemon Relationship(s), Jouto-chihou | Johto Region (Pokemon), Loss, Love, Love Confessions, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, Prologue, Shirogane Yama | Mt. Silver (Pokemon), Suicide, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23988763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triora/pseuds/Triora
Summary: World‐famous Altaria was thought forever lost, until her song was reportedly heard within the dungeons of Mt. Silver. The star’s bodyguard never gave up hope, and now only a vault door stands between the search party, and the truth behind her mysterious disappearance.
Relationships: Tyltalis | Altaria/Original Character(s)
Series: Altaria, Our Star [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729726
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue: Fear of the Dark

* * *

It’s dark, can’t see. Why isn’t mother here, why is she taking so long?

Muffled screams and gunshots from outside. Mother said it would be safe here.

Together they would wait inside. Once they arrived, the army people would let them out.

Kanto isn’t safe anymore. They would live in Johto, a nice place not far away.

Rumbling. The train is taking off. Where is she?

* * *

He lays down the lantern on the grass. A gust of wind whistles over him. The burial site is not a warm location to visit, but memories of his mother are amongst his most treasured.

Over the past few years he has learned much of the events that happened in his youth, but nothing would set his mind at ease. _Why did you leave me?_ The question wouldn’t leave him alone.

His heart jumps as a Sunkern leaps from behind him, settling by the lantern. His instinct is to kick off the Pokémon, disrespecting his mother’s grave. But as the Sunkern turns around, he can’t help but mirror its smile as its beady eyes gaze up at him. Despite their iconic status as the weakest of Johto, the little seed‐like creatures are known for their happy and carefree expressions under their two‐leaf sprouts.

How a creature like this would find it so easy to adjust to a world so dangerous, he couldn’t understand. “No place is safe,” he mutters as the Sunkern continues staring at him. Its bright yellow body twitches as a breeze blows past them. The flame on the candle inside the lantern drifts for a moment, before returning upright as the wind quietens.

The harsh, low cry of a Murkrow breaks their staring contest, and he looks up. A pair of blood‐red eyes glow amid its night‐blue body. Its bold yellow beak and talons look ready to tear its victims’ flesh apart.

Overcome with an instinct to protect, he shifts a foot to enter a lower and wider stance, leaning forward with his arms above the Sunkern. With heavy breaths he watches as the Murkrow takes flight. It lets out a hoarse cry, and lands on a further branch. Relaxing his tensed body, he sighs and looks away. Common sense would say there’s no reason for the two to fight. But then, what reason is there for anything?

Gravestones of various shapes and sizes lie scattered about the hilly terrain. In the distance are a mix of pines and firs, even a spruce here and there. The coniferous outliers clash with the human‐planted sawtooth oaks lying about the cemetery. While fast‐growing for its genus, the species is a grim choice for a graveyard, named for its sawtooth‐edged leaves. Seemingly as disorderly as nature can be, the cemetery showcases how human methods oppose the ways of the wild. He looks up to the sky. Clouds of pure, cottony white move about in an endless sea of a bright, fresh blue.

In the wilderness, there are no rules. There is no pretense. Everything is raw and real. Sometimes, that means brutality. But always, it means honesty. Cunning as Pokémon can be, their intentions are clear. Their instinct is for their own survival, and they don’t hide it. That is something he has always admired them for.

His eyes dart around, his feet shift, his body turns. Paths curved and straight, paved and unpaved, some tread upon, others without life. Leaves carried in the wind, the living visiting the dead. Calming his breath, he focuses on a couple further down the hill.

Well‐dressed, they stand before a large gravestone surrounded by a patch of grass extending far enough for a mass grave. Perhaps it’s for an extended family, all buried together. What would he know, he has no family. The two throw some flowers onto the grass, and he turns his mind and body back to his mother’s grave.

Only the lantern remains, its candle puffing out a pillar of smoke, swaying in the wind. Perhaps the Sunkern had sought warmth, and was frightened away by his sudden movement. The little scene reflects his relation to Pokémon all too well.

The Murkrow preens its feathers on an oak branch. Would such a creature understand the kind of area it’s visiting, who knows. Some consider Pokémon little more than tools for humans, while others insist they ought to be seen as equals. As for himself—

A droplet hitting water, rippling its surface. Visualizing the image is a technique taught to Pokémon, helping them concentrate for battle. _A calm mind knows its way around its opponent._

But what is his opponent in this world? What is the battle that he’s fighting?

Why is it he who ended up living, and his mother who lies below the ground?

Once again he reads the engraving on the tombstone, feeling in his pocket the medal many would be proud of, but to him brought nothing but tears.

_Through her outstanding bravery she delayed the enemy in the Battle of Saffron, preventing the capture of key equipment and supplies._


	2. At the Gates

Deep within the dungeons of Mt. Silver, Rudolf Inor let his back‐and‐forth pacing become an almost‐dance. He had been right all this time—he had known all along. Altaria was alive and well, safe and secure. Everything was fine, and now they were only moments away from her return.

Once again she would step from behind the curtains, her gracious little feet carrying her onto the stage in bolstered spirits, with renewed confidence. Once again the audiences would be captivated by her sheer beauty as she spread her wings, captured by her heavenly song as she opened her beak. And he would stand guard, proudly protecting Tarnow Media’s most valued asset.

* * *

He grabs the door handle. The coldness of the metal contrasts with the warmth radiating from the avian star next to him. Strides away, the nearest light source struggles to reach the end of the corridor, giving them relative peace and quiet together. He looks at her with a smile.

The pair of long plumes topping her perfectly round head glow with the same golden tone as the rest of her body. Her eyes glimmer with affection, and she opens her beak, humming softly. He yearns for the warm little moment to last, but he knows they’re being watched.

He puts his arm around her. Below her long neck, most of her body is covered in thick layers of soft white feathers. Only her back is bare. Maybe that’s why she likes to fold her wings toward her back, making her lower body look like a cloud. He rubs his palm against her wing, applying pressure with all the gentleness he can muster. To pull her in for a hug is tempting, but a glance aside confirms they’re not alone.

Altaria seems to get the message, stepping away from the door. He pulls on the handle, and with a click the lock unlatches. The seal separating the performance hall from the outside world breaks, and a cool breeze enters through the gap.

Pulling the door open and leaning his back against it, he looks outside. A sea of desaturated grays mix together in the falling rain. A set of plastic barriers form a fence to separate them from the star’s fans, eager to see her exit. Some have umbrellas, some wear raincoats, some have hoods on, and one wears an orange beanie. All of them stand still. If they’re making any sound, it’s imperceptible against the rain pounding the canopy above the door.

He bends his knees and brings his arms under Altaria’s body. Perhaps caught by surprise, she tries to spread her wings in the cramped space. To help her relax, he moves his hands around her underside, giving her a gentle massage. She opens her beak, closes her eyes, and wobbles closer to him. With her cheek against his dress shirt, she brushes her head against the silky lining of his suit jacket. He grips her lightly, letting her feel his intention before making his hold firmer.

She opens her eyes. With a deep inhale, he lifts her. Leaning backward, he keeps her close and secure. Her head is right next to his, and she looks him straight in the eyes. Her fluffy body presses against his hard chest. He can hardly breathe. He can only think of laying her against a supple mattress, white as her cottony down, and taking her in for a deep, passionate kiss.

As he moves a leg over the threshold, Altaria wraps her wings around his body, pressing herself against him. Close up, her sugary aroma is intoxicating, like being wrapped by the most fragrant of flowers. Her syrupy scent blends the sweetest of Pecha Berries with a hint of the freshest of mint. He wants nothing more than to press his lips against her beak, letting their tongues meet in a tender kiss.

A gust of wind whistles past them, and he steps outside, letting the door shut behind them. He can hardly think, and for a moment just stares her in the eyes, holding her close. She looks back at him, her eyes lit with a pure affection, something truly out of this world. He speaks to her, “You are so precious.”

Thunder strikes in the distance, momentarily joining the streetlamps in illuminating the scene. Finally he bends his knees, starting to lower her. She turns her head toward the crowd, who cheer in response. As her little feet get closer to the ground, he lifts his foot behind her, not letting her beautiful tail feathers touch the dirt.

With Altaria safely across the threshold, he takes out an umbrella. With a press of the button it swishes open, ready to cover the star from droplets unworthy of her attention. He glances at the crowd with a sigh. The orange beanie stands out like a Murkrow amongst Sunflora. _Don’t try anything_.

A low rumbling comes from the end of the path. Their vehicle is waiting. With a low stance, he gets closer to Altaria. One arm carries the umbrella, while the other holds up her tail feathers. His eyes move between her and the crowd as they walk toward the vehicle.

* * *

Rays of light traveled from lights hand‐carried and weapon‐mounted alike, reflecting off the vault door at the end of the corridor. Four men in black uniform stood before the door. With them was a Pokémon less than half their height. Its fur was a dark brown with blotches of an earthy red. Metallic blades extended from its head and claws. _Excadrill_. Quite possibly the only way to defeat a barrier like this.

Rudolf took a deep breath, taking in the remarkably clean air of the dungeon. Countless times he had left his home in Goldenrod to search for Altaria on his own. His service weapon had been sufficient for most off‐route exploration, but Mt. Silver… There was no way he could have looked here. The entire area surrounding the mountain was off‐limits to all but the most accomplished of Trainers.

Rubbing his forehead, once again he thought over the report that had led them here. The expert Trainer had stayed inside the mountain during a bitterly cold mist, and heard Altaria’s song. Widely respected and well‐known for an exceptional ability to connect with Pokémon, there was little reason to doubt the Trainer and the authenticity of the report.

He nodded to himself. It all added up—it all made sense. Despite his every insistence, Altaria had never been trained in combat. As it was, she knew only the power to create mist. While sometimes applied as a tactical defensive move, Altaria’s use of it had been more based on emotion of the moment, rather than tactics. Still, it was not out of the question that she would have used it to draw in the Trainer, knowing her powerful voice would be heard.

He frowned, looking at the ground. A time or two during his searches he had thought he could just about hear something resembling her song. Delusion. That’s what he had attributed it to. Could it have been, had he paid enough attention—no, there was no way. The idea was ridiculous.

His eyes sought the shadowy outline of Altaria’s owner. _Patricia Tarnow_. To many, the name would bring to mind cutthroat business tactics and unfair competition. But for him, the CEO had shown kindness and understanding.

Regardless, they had their differences, and some things he had to be careful with. In truth, it was hard to look at her without unease. He had guarded his secret the best he could. While it may be little more than a remnant from his old ways, he could never shake off the feeling that the Tarnows had eyes everywhere. Even now, a nervousness reminiscent of their first meeting moved through his body. He just couldn’t risk it all.

* * *

He pauses in front of the door of dark wood. This is it. Either he is to become Altaria’s bodyguard, or all his efforts will have been in vain.

He looks down at the handle. The yellow tone pales in comparison to Altaria’s golden beauty. Beyond this door is his only chance. The CEO is waiting.

He curls his fingers around the handle. His heart beats as if he’s running a marathon. His breathing is unsteady. His head is dizzy. He can hardly think.

But the time has come, and with a firm application of pressure, the lock mechanism disengages, and the tongue slides out of its slot. He takes a step back and pulls the door ajar.

A strike of thunder hits his body, or that is what it feels like. _Altaria_. Sitting on a cushion of royal purple, her little feet come out of her cottony covering. She’s so beautiful. He cannot even lift his eyes off the floor, let alone focus on his task.

But there is no going back now. Pushing his body inside the room, he grabs the door handle and steps forward. The door closes behind him with a soft click. He hears something about welcoming him, but is unable to think clearly.

He ought to say something nice back, but his mind is too crowded, too clouded by thoughts. First impressions, they always say. He has already failed. He has no hope. There’s no way they’d choose someone like him. It’s impossible.

A high‐toned chirp reaches his ears. Is Altaria making a sound in reaction to his presence? Could it be? He lifts his eyes off the floor. A desk. A woman sitting behind. “Greetings,” he finds himself saying. Right away he feels stupid. That’s no way to greet a CEO.

His eyes shift to look at Altaria, as if pulled magnetically. “I’m uh—I’m here to apply as bodyguard.”

He can only keep staring at Altaria, even if it’s not proper. She’s so beautiful. She inclines her head, looking at him. He comes to his senses and looks back at the CEO.

With a warm smile he offers his hand across the desk, looking her in the eyes. “Rudolf Inor. Pleasure to meet you, Madam.”

* * *

A droplet of water hit his head, and he looked up. A variety of shapes protruded from above. With only the underside receiving any light, who knew what could be hiding there. As if sensing his apprehension, the rescue team’s gray‐bodied Machamp sauntered in front of him, the bright‐red Assault Vest glowing softly from the rays of light reaching it. The Superpower Pokémon had displayed outstanding strength and dexterity against the Onix overpopulating the dungeons. Still, he had his concerns.

All government Machamp came from the infamous Machoke Training Facility. New Machop entrants were pitted against current Machoke. Victorious Machop were trained into their evolved form. This simple system set the bar constantly higher, but what happened to the majority of Machop who failed, who knew. The Machoke were either picked by eligible Trainers and became Machamp, or died. To the proponents of the facility, it was a simple matter of culling the weak.

The Machamp posed in front of him, as if in a bodybuilding contest. The red vest puffed up as the Pokémon displayed the massive muscles on each of its four arms. This individual seemed perfectly content with the job, evident from the upward curl to its pale‐yellow lips. He shrugged off the matter. He was hardly in a position to judge others’ training methods. Looking at the Machamp, he felt the same way he always had. The Trainer–Pokémon relationship had never quite felt right to him. With Altaria, it was different. She wasn’t his. He was hers, by his choice.

He stepped away, stretching his arms out. Things had gone so well, it was almost hard to believe it was real.

* * *

The office atmosphere is pleasing. A variety of leafy plants, some smaller, others larger. The air smells fresh, almost as a forest. The large desk between them is made of a light wood, perhaps maple. The chairs are covered in a soft, relaxing material. Muffled traffic noise joins the hum of the air conditioning in preventing awkward silences.

He speaks up with confidence. “I’ve been working as a security guard at the Game Corner. I don’t do gambling myself, but I certainly don’t judge those who do.”

Being interviewed directly by the CEO is something he expected to be more stressful.

* * *

_Altaria…_ While he wouldn’t dare to accuse the family of overworking the star, over the two or three years he’d served as her bodyguard, he’d grown increasingly concerned for her well‐being. While she had tried not to show her stress and anxiety, it had been obvious to anyone close to her. The family had insisted all she needed was some time alone before her performances.

In the same way, they had been adamant in saying Goldenrod was fine, that she did fine, locked into an apartment. As spacious as the family’s penthouse was, in his view, she deserved better. And he was confident he could provide for her.

His dream was to take Altaria for a peaceful walk beyond the forests north of Ecruteak. To his secret location, a wilderness plateau he’d scouted out just for the two of them. An unblemished world, a sanctum of purity, a place where time itself ceased to have meaning.

A sanctuary hidden away from the rest of the world, where droplets of dew covered the fields of grass without end, reflecting rays of light from the gentle morning sun. A quiet place of serenity where she could freely spread her wings, feeling the soft massage of the cooling wind.

A place where she could lie down against the velvety grass, taking in the refreshing moisture, absorbing the sun’s healing shine, savoring the sweet scent of wild orchids. Her own paradise where no expectations would be placed upon her, where the world existed for her, where nothing would be asked of her.

It would be the one day that would be just for her, where there was no pressure, no burden. A time of rest, a reminder of her own value. His way of letting her know, how much he loved her.

He was ready to provide everything she’d need. It was only a matter of working up the courage to ask the family, finding the right moment to propose his suggestion. Earning their trust, assuring them all would be fine.

* * *

Slowly he lowers himself to be closer to Altaria’s level. Little by little he extends his shaking hand toward her neck. As his palm meets her neck, he lets it slide down the natural curve, as if pulled by gravity. His other arm he brings around her, stroking her cottony wing with the lightest of touch.

She closes her eyes, and lets out a light chirp. Holding his breath, he glances at the CEO.

She looks right back at him. “You may leave.”

* * *

A pair of twisted horns entered his field of view, and hot air reached his face, creating a slight burning sensation. Coughing, he stepped backward. Noticing Altaria’s owner beside him, he spoke to her, “Everything’s fine, Madam. Our star—”

A beam of light shot into his eyes, and he looked away.

“All right now, time to move,” the cop said, strutting past him together with his Machamp. “They are ready for the breach.”

Rudolf sighed, watching as Patricia followed them. Her deep‐green coat glinted with its luxuriously smooth texture. “I understand, Mr. Inor. She’s _fine_.”

The emphasis in the last word made it obvious she hadn’t changed her pessimistic view. “Is in good hands,” he finished his sentence with a low voice.

A low growl came from behind him, and the other officer to don the blue uniform spoke next to him, “Move it.”

* * *

“May I,” he says, looking down at the teenager, extending his hand toward the upper shelf.

“Go ahead,” she says, sitting down on the couch and leaning backward.

He takes hold of the book. While its faded blue spine reminds him of a calm ocean, today is a storm of an opportunity. A book on Altaria, and he’d be the co‐author. “You know, I’ve thought of a sub—”

“Look at chapter seven. It’s not how you said, it’s not like that at all.”

He can only smile. Evelyn has the bluntness of her mother, but lacks her refinement. Obedient as he feels when it comes to the Tarnows, he places the book on the coffee table between them, and opens it. Browsing through the pages, he continues, “How would you like a subtitle, _The True Story of Our Star_?”

He pauses, waiting for an answer. He raises his eyes, only lifting his head enough to look at her. “Well?”

“It’s fine.”

His body tenses up. Is she mocking him? He continues staring at her, but she just wouldn’t budge. Gulping down the ultimately meaningless matter, he sighs and continues browsing. She shares his passion, even if it doesn’t quite manifest the same way. Still, since she wants to choose the title, it would only be fair that he could choose the subtitle.

* * *

Rudolf pressed his hand against the wall. The rough, rocky surfaces of the damp dungeon would soon be left behind. He could hardly wait to feel Altaria’s cottony body again, taking her back to safety. Just one door remained in their way, and that door was about to be breached. It wouldn’t take long, not with an Excadrill.

The cops moved their flashlights around, lighting up stone formations from pebbles to boulders, but no Onix. The Machamp punched the air, practicing or bored, who knew. The Houndoom rested against the floor, for once silent.

Patricia’s calm expression spoke of the quiet confidence he knew her for. But if she didn’t believe Altaria was fine, how could she be positive like that?


	3. Cold Steel

Patricia Tarnow stepped over the vault opening, entering the brightly‐lit hall. _Johto Underground Survival Center_. She’d heard of the place, but to her knowledge it had never been used. All known entrances were supposed to be sealed.

The assault team members clad in black uniform split into two pairs. Each took one of the side corridors, both of which led to a metal door. Each corridor had a wooden bench against one wall, and metallic shelves on the other. Looking closer, the doors were strangely elliptical, almost like in a submarine.

The entrance hall was fairly spacious, a square in shape. The walls were a light gray, with a marble‐like pattern. In the center of the back wall, a set of dark‐blue curtains hung from a golden‐toned rod. One of the officers walked ahead of her. He was of a dark complexion, with a thick, bushy mustache. Turning toward her, he said, “You may stay here, for now.” By parting the curtains he revealed a doorway, and went through it.

The bodyguard walked about the room. Pacing around was a habit he’d kept, but in all the light it was all the more obvious how this was a changed man. In the days when Altaria had still been around, he’d kept himself looking professional. Nowadays, he was starting to look as a wild man. The star’s disappearance had impacted everyone, no doubt about it.

She looked up to the ceiling. Light gray tiles, with some glowing bright white. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. _Altaria… is this where you_ _we_ _re_ _taken_ _?_

Guarding the entrance was the other officer, holding his Houndoom by a steel chain. It was hard not to shudder, looking at the black‐bodied canine. Police Houndoom were widely suspected to be descendants of Vicnio. While the details were as enigmatic as the experiments the Houndoom had supposedly gone through, everyone knew that the people most closely associated with Vicnio had died in horrifying ways. _Project Vicious_. That was one name you wouldn’t dare mention in public.

Putting the thoughts aside, she looked at the bodyguard again. He had settled down, leaning against the wall in his charcoal suit. Today’s wardrobe choice included a bright green tie that glowed like an emerald in all the light. She let her eyes go out of focus, her expression turning into a smile. This was the tie he had worn to the wedding where Altaria had been invited to perform.

* * *

The bodyguard raises his arms into the air. “Oh, the honor of having our star attend a ceremony where two become one.”

Patricia holds back her laughter. This is exactly why he got the job. “It’s to take place in Hearthome, in the Sinnoh region.”

The bodyguard stares back at her with a blank expression. She raises her eyebrows.

“What? What about it?”

She shakes her head. “That’s a long way from Johto, Mr. Inor. She’ll need to be accompanied the whole way.”

He shakes his raised fist with vigor. “Madam, I’ll travel to the end of the world with her if need be.”

She can no longer suppress her laughter. “I appreciate that you take your job seriously, but I can’t have you go alone.”

His excited expression fades, and his arms return to his sides.

She looks out the window. What is he thinking?

* * *

The dark‐blue curtains parted as the mustached officer re‐entered the hall and called out to them, “Madam Tarnow, Mr. Inor.” He stepped aside and held the curtain up, pointing to the room with his hand. “You may wait here.”

From the entrance she saw a large painting of a Tyranitar. She walked in, taking a closer look. The typically fierce Tyranitar held a gentle expression here, looking down at a baby Larvitar in its hands. In the background the sun rose above a cave opening. The oil painting had a soft, dreamy feel to it.

The room was in the shape of a regular hexagon. The back side walls each had closed doors. Steel‐framed, they were made of light‐toned wood and had locks, but no handles. The bodyguard walked next to her. Turning toward him, she spoke her thoughts aloud, “I wonder, did they really search here properly?”

He stared at the painting. “I suppose so.”

She sighed.

The bodyguard turned to look at her. “You know, after all this is done—”

She looked back at him. “Yes?”

“I think our star,” he said, briefly looking away, “I think she could use some rest.”

She grinned. His hopefulness was welcome, providing some warmth to the bleakness. “Surely. That’s true for all of us.”

He took a deep breath. “Could I ask you something?”

She turned to look at him. This wasn’t quite like him.

“I have a place in mind, a place I think she’d like.”

“A place?” she said with a smile, raising her eyebrows.

“I was thinking I could take her, take her for a peaceful walk one day—just to relax, so she could have some time to herself.”

Patricia frowned in thought, trying to imagine what the bodyguard was thinking of. “That’s… that’s something I would need some time to think about. Let’s let the dust settle, before we start making bigger plans, okay?”

“Madam, thank you for your understanding.”

She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. And it wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. But in his current state… She shook her head.

Turning to look at the wood door, she noticed it had dents and scratches on it. Why were these made of a soft wood, when the others were metal? And if this place had never been used—she stopped to think, had it ever been used? Looking at the walls with their colorful swirls and veins characteristic of marble, she spoke, “This place, was it ever used for anything?”

There was no response. She looked at the bodyguard. He kept staring at the painting of the Tyranitar with its baby. She sighed. “Mr. Inor?”

He turned to look at her. His eyes were open wide, a strange intensity colored his expression. “No idea.”

She shrugged, and looked at the wall next to her. A set of metal shelves, similar to the ones in the corridors. A variety of masks filled the top row. A hockey mask, colorful carnival masks, and a plain white mask. What would such be doing in a place for survival? She looked closer at some of the colorful ones. The dominant color differed for each, but all had a similar design. Curious, she bent her knees to see what was on the lower shelves. A row of motorcycle helmets.

She gasped as the scene returned to her mind. Arriving at the crash site. The violent set of scratches on the motorbike, her husband’s helmet and riding jacket. She faltered backward. The blood everywhere, the unnaturally twisted limbs, the stench. Something supported her body from behind.

She turned her head to see the bodyguard holding her up. “It’s fine,” he said.

She stood up as he let go of her. _I have to go on_ , she told herself. The pain, it would not go away. She could never forget. Taking deep breaths, she looked at the masks for a moment, before walking back to the entrance hall. Pushing the curtain out of way, she saw the mustached officer sitting in the corridor.

He looked up at her from the bench, moving to make some way. “Madam Tarnow.”

She sat down next to him. A series of inhales, pauses, and exhales helped her relax as she sat there in silence.

“Been a rough day,” he commented, staring at the wall opposite them.

Another set of metal shelves. These had a variety of containers, buckets and cans, seemingly for some sort of chemicals.

“What would you say, what are these for?” she asked the officer, wanting to change the subject.

“Oh, on the shelves?” He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Well, you never know what you might need.”

Leaning forward, she glanced up at the officer. He stared at the shelves with a slight smile.

Shrugging off the strange answer, she straightened her back. “This place, it was built during the war, wasn’t it?” She looked up toward the ceiling. “My father was in the military.”

The officer cleared his throat. “Well.” Again he hesitated.

Patricia looked at the officer, raising her eyebrows. “Something wrong?”

The officer stood up and looked down at her. “I’ll be checking on the others. You take some time to rest now. I’m sure we’ll locate—”

He went silent for a moment, facing the end of the corridor. Turning to look back at her, he continued, “We’ll find her, Madam.”

He walked off and pulled the door ajar. Entering, he closed the door with a thud.

The sign above the door caught her attention. _Congregation Hall_.

* * *

Altaria had shown her what power love held, how it was the heart that was the most powerful symbol. But her disappearance had confirmed its dark side, of how the more you loved, the more loss would hurt. _Nothing lasts forever_. If losing first Altaria, and then her husband, if these had taught her anything, it was to cherish every moment.

Footsteps broke the silence. The bodyguard parted the curtains, and looked at her for a moment, before walking to the other corridor. His movement was slow, more of a slouch now. He stopped before the wooden bench, looking down at it, as if examining it.

She stared at the marble pattern painted on the walls. The bodyguard had tried hiding his feelings for Altaria. He genuinely seemed to believe she couldn’t tell. Was he afraid of losing the position, or did he simply regard it as a matter of professionalism, she knew not. But the way he looked at Altaria, his hesitance and awkwardness in interacting with her, it was plain to see. The deep longing in his eyes. The happiness, yet the sadness.

Even with a hint dropped here and there, he had remained oblivious. Love made you blind, no doubt. She couldn’t help but let out a little laugh.

She shook her head. She didn’t mind. Altaria was lovely and attractive, no doubt about it. And he was hardly alone. Altaria had her fans, and a few had taken it a bit far at times. But just as with the bodyguard, it wasn’t anything serious. While humorous for the large part, there was a darker aspect to it.

Altaria, she had tried so hard not to show it, but the truth was, all that attention troubled her. All those obsessive fans fawning over her, and she could never truly make them happy.

That was her true beauty—she just wanted to make others happy. That energy, that passion, that longing she would channel into her song, which would find its way around to touch even the most deep‐seated of hearts. Her song had power. But even so, it wasn’t limitless.

She looked over at the bodyguard. He was leaning over, holding his head in his hands. He had never said it, but she suspected he blamed himself for the night’s events. In fact, it wouldn’t be surprising if he blamed himself for a whole lot more.

She couldn’t help but feel he had some deep‐seated issue, something out of the ordinary. What it was, she could never figure out. Any suggestion to get help with his problem, even if she offered to pay for it, was turned down. With how important his job was to him, she could only let it be, hoping it wouldn’t get in the way of his duties.

Only that fateful night, the ultimate cost had been paid. It was too painful to think of. She shook her head. There was nothing to be gotten from pointing fingers now.

Still, she could only admire how he had never given up hope. He genuinely seemed to believe Altaria would still be alive. His theory was that some crazed fan had kidnapped her, wanting to keep her for themselves. While to her that was absurd, she had no better explanation to offer.

It wouldn’t be long now. There had to be an answer. If the Trainer’s report was to be believed, this place had to have some connection with her. She looked at the closed metal door. _The government?_ Could they have something to do with it? She shook her head. _No way._

She stood up. The bodyguard had sat alone in silence all this time. As she walked to the square‐shaped hall, a metallic rattling noise built up outside. The harsh, low growl of Houndoom made her jump backward. “Stay in,” the officer shouted from behind the vault opening, “both of you.” The Houndoom’s growls turned into barks, and she stepped back.

She eyed the bodyguard. Both stood in place, looking at each other. His eyes were wide, his expression intense. With an uncharacteristic stiffness to his movement, he sat down again, looking away. She sighed and went back to sit alone.

* * *

“Lucas, you know I’m—”

“It doesn’t matter. That’s not what matters.” He turns on his chair to face her. “Look, we’re both adults now. I’m doing my thing, you do yours.”

She sighs. _Just like your sister_. Losing their father has pushed them further on the same path. Perhaps this is their way of dealing with loss.

* * *

The door swung open, and one of the men in black uniform came through. While the helmet and balaclava covered most of his face, she had a feeling it wasn’t going to be good news. He looked at her and said, “Our condolences, Madam. There was nothing we could do.”

The dark cloth stopped moving. She closed her eyes and covered them with her hands. _Altaria…_ An empty numbness took over her mind. The door gave off its creaks again, and a series of footsteps passed by her. It was over. There was nothing to be done.

Heavy, coarse breathing from the other side caught her attention. Coughs, or sobs? Not once had Inor cried in her presence.

The door creaked more heavily, and one of the men cleared his throat. “Madam Tarnow, you may enter.”

Her body shook as she opened her eyes, lowered her hands, and stood up. She looked up at the sign again. _Congregation Hall_. With a deep breath, she stepped over the threshold.

The door swung closed behind her. Wooden benches like the ones before, rows upon rows of them on both sides. The long walkway between them led to…

 _Altaria!_ She broke into a run. Her golden body was visible in the distance, lying inside a steel cage on a raised platform, as if a stage. With each breath, the relief of finding her calmed the grim atmosphere.

Getting to the stairs, she clambered up, catching her breath from the run. Exhausted, but happy to see that at least Altaria’s body was found, she looked around. The room was long in shape, with a tall ceiling. The marble pattern on the walls was similar to the others, but utilized darker shades. By the walls were boxes of various kinds, all sealed and opaque. She walked over to the cage.

A disc of dark wood formed the base of the cage. Round metal bars rose from its edges in arcs, forming a half‐sphere. At the top, the bars connected into a smaller disc of lighter wood, as if some platform.

She took hold of the bars. Altaria’s body lay against the base, her beak closed, her eyes shut. Her cottony plumage, once so lively and lustrous, was now a dull gray.

She glided her fingers over the lifeless wing. Soft and supple, just as before. But her body was cold, lifeless. Never again would these wings move, never again would her beating heart be felt or heard. “Altaria,” she said, moving her hand over to the white cheeks, and then to the beak. “Who did this to you? Who hurt you, my child?”

She began to shiver. The air felt increasingly cold and damp. Droplets of water formed on the bars. Withdrawing her hand, she raised her head, squinting her eyes. “Mist?”

She stood up and looked around. Nobody else. She gasped as realization hit her. “Altaria?” She walked around the platform. “Altaria, are you here? Are you still here?” Somehow, she had to be. She ran back to the cage where Altaria’s body lay still.

Altaria’s body remained cold to touch. She moved her hand beneath her wing, feeling her soft underside. A frown took over her expression as her fingertips touched something hard. Taking a hold of the object, she pulled it out. A pocket‐sized book, faded off‐white. A simple sketch of Altaria on the cover accompanied the title, _Altaria, the Altar Pokémon._ With her heart and mind racing, she flipped the book open, and began reading. _Here I shall attempt…_

* * *

“Altaria, my child,” she said, putting the book down. “You were so brave.”

She clutched the bars separating them. “You never let your faith falter, for you knew, you knew humanity was capable of love as you were. This dark ritual… It could never have worked on you.”

She let go of the bars, taking a deep breath. “For you knew, you knew how we loved you. You knew we were looking for you, that we would never give up on you.”

She looked up. “Altaria, my child, you never did anything wrong. You never did anything to deserve any of this. We all love you, now and always.”

The mist began to fade, and the air dried up again. She stepped away from the cage. “You truly were a gift from the gods.”

Patricia wiped her eyes, and picked up the book. She shook her head. Written as if in remorse. Forbidden knowledge, curses, whatever. Sickening, all of it.

The newspaper clipping included in the book, it was no older than a few weeks. If only they could have found her earlier…

Still, Altaria had survived. She truly had been, as the father of the family had once put it… _Too b_ _ig_ _of_ _a spirit to_ _fit_ _a Pokémon’s body._

She glanced around, confirming she was alone. If they weren’t going to share information with her, she would do the same to them. She placed the book in her handbag, and began her walk back.

Having proper closure was comforting, no matter how terrible what happened may have been. All that would remain was to provide her body a proper resting place.

* * *

Only, what was the bodyguard’s reaction going to be? No doubt he had been quite close to Altaria, now that she thought about it. His strange behavior, maybe that was his way of coming to terms with…

She pushed the door in, entering the corridor. The mustached officer stood by the shelves and looked at her briefly, before turning toward the other side, saying, “Mr. Inor. You may—”

The bodyguard sprinted through the hallway. Patricia moved against the wall, and tried to call out to him. But before anyone could act, he barged in and shut the door.


	4. Judgment

_For fuck’s sake, she’s fine._ His damned body wouldn’t stop shaking. _Stop it_.

* * *

He pushes the young man against the brick wall. “You motherfucker—you don’t even know what pain _is_.”

He grips the neck, preventing a reply. “Think you have it rough, do you? Figured you’d try your luck, did you? Thought you had any right to be with her?”

The face twists and contorts. He throws the body to the ground. “One more fucking time, and you’re fucking dead.”

He spits on the face, raises his foot, and stomps the beanie off the head.

He moves to the door. Taking the key, he pushes it into the lock, rotates it, and pulls the door open.

Turning to look back at the body on the ground, he holds the door open with his foot. He removes the key from the lock and says, “Just… Stay away from her.”

Entering, he grabs the handle and pulls the door closed. A firm thud and click confirm it’s locked.

He walks over to pull the washroom door open. Mercifully it is empty. Walking over to the sink, he lets the water flow, and looks in the mirror.

His face glows red. But thankfully it doesn’t look possible to tell if it’s from anger, or from his own pain.

* * *

With his back against the door, he stared at the floor. The same grainy gray as elsewhere. Only a whir carrying over from the back of the room set it apart from the others.

Keeping his head low, he looked around. More wooden benches. A raised platform at the end. Just another performance hall. She was taken here to perform. There she’d be waiting at the end. It was just a matter of getting there. Dragging his feet forward, he began his journey.

Bits and pieces of wood on the floor. A smashed bench. His breathing became labored. What happened here?

* * *

Familiar voice. Look up, see beanie. Accusations, foul language. Over the fence—must act.

Altaria’s body stiffening. Throw umbrella at target. Wrap Altaria in arms, pull her up, hold her close. Run toward vehicle, command to open door.

Push Altaria onto seat, careful with wings. Turn around, push body against door. Command to leave.

Turn toward target, feet wide apart, arms in front.

Target stands still. Vehicle screeching.

* * *

Step by step his feet dragged him on. A long walk, but no worse than any other of his searches. Just a matter of getting to the end now.

Saws, hammers, hand drill. All kinds of tools on the floor. But of course maintenance men would use these, renovating a place still in use. Audiences big and small would fit right in. Just another performance hall for the star.

* * *

Target running toward stage. Fingers grabbing edge of platform. Weapon ready, arms straightened, aiming at chest.

Shots fired. Audience screaming and running around. Must keep focus. Target’s fingers start losing grip, body begins to slide down. Beanie falls on ground.

Shout for co‐performers to block Altaria’s view. Target’s body red from blood.

* * *

_Murderer._ The word would not leave him alone. Maybe he hadn’t done the right thing. Maybe he had overreacted. But to protect the star was his task.

It didn’t matter now. The Tarnows’ wealth and influence had saved him from his sentence.

Just a matter of reaching the end now. Taking hold of the end‐caps on the benches, he pushed on.

* * *

The intense sunlight eases into a tolerable brightness as he pulls the vehicle door closed. He turns to look at Altaria. She sits in the middle, staring at the floor in silence.

He places his arm around her, his palm seeking to caress her drooping wing. He leans toward her. “It’s fine.”

Moving his hand around her wing, he looks down at the rubber mat her eyes focus on. Her wing feels stiff. “You did your best.”

He pulls her trembling body closer. “It’s fine.”

* * *

_She’s fine_ , he told himself. His eyelids drooped, his hands shook, his grip faltered.

Why did his legs not seem to have the energy to carry him on, he could not understand. Everything was going to be restored. Once again she would sing her song.

* * *

What he’s doing here, he can’t understand. It’s just an Altaria. Rare maybe in Johto, but what about it. Just somehow, he’s intrigued. Maybe this is it, he’s finally lost it. As a security guard, he sees the worst. In the shadow of night, he becomes no better.

It’s her first show. The hall is empty enough, he can sit alone in the back. Nobody’s gonna bother, it’s a good place. Others take their seats closer to the front. Scum, all of them. Moment you let your guard down, they stab you right in the back.

Hard plastic chairs. What do you expect, it’s a Tarnow show.

Spotlight turns on. The red curtains rise. Why is it getting hard to breathe. Why is something stuck in his throat. Why is his heart beating so damned fast.

Altaria walks onto the stage, her body swaying with each step. Why does it feel like something in his body is burning. She spreads her cottony wings, and lets out a little chirp.

He clenches his fists and stands up. Mercifully he is alone in the back. Why is he unable to control himself? She begins her song. Why is he crying? Why does she have so much power over him?

* * *

No, not a sad song, not this. Whatever he was hearing in his head was not right.

Edge of platform reached, almost there now. He glanced sideways, where a set of stairs led up. A storm raged in the walls. Bolts of light gray clashed against waves of dark gray.

Not a song calling upon him, no, not one filled with fear and concern.

One foot after another he lifted, climbing up the stairs. Fine platform, good for performing. His journey was about to end.

Only this wasn’t it, no, not a song of how she cared about him. How could it be—he had failed his task. _Failed_ _?_ He lifted his head, eyes climbing to center upon a set of metallic bars.

A cloud. Inside a cage. His knees gave way, he collapsed onto the platform. He could only laugh. All these tears forcing their way through. There was no pain. There was nothing left to be felt.

With a feeble grip, he pulled on the bars, dragging his body closer. There she’d been all along. Just as he’d said. His trembling hand searched for the beak that once let out song with power to calm the strongest storm. He could not see beyond the veil of tears, not hear beyond the ringing in his head. But with a touch of her body, he knew it was over.

Here lay the one he should have given his everything to protect. Here was the final confirmation of his inability to save life. His incapability of caring for the one and only he had ever loved.

* * *

Faint strips of light escape into the hallway. This is their chance to be together, alone. The white‐painted door and the shining gaps between it and its frame provide the perfect image for the moment.

He glances around the hallway. Shadows and silhouettes in a variety of shapes, but he’s definitely alone. _Once a thief, always a thief._ The thought makes him smile. But there’s nothing wrong with what he’s about to do now.

He takes out a black roll and lays it on a nearby table. Lock picking is a skill he once depended on for survival, but today his loot is going to be different. He unfurls the roll, and looks over the selection of picks. He takes out the L‐shaped tension wrench, and moves to examine the lock.

A standard pin tumbler. It could be raked for speed, or he may pick the pins one at a time. His preference has always been to work in the shadows, unseen. He can take his time. _No one is coming for you Altaria_ , he thinks with a grin _._

Moving over to the collection of picking tools, he selects a thin rod of metal ending in a hook. Returning to the lock, he bends his knees to be closer, and inserts the pair of tools into the keyway. He pushes the hook against the first pin, feeling for its correct position. He looks out the window.

The clouds outside move, uncovering the moon. Additional light finds its way into the hallway. A droplet hitting water, rippling its surface. This is no time to lose his calm. One by one the pins find their positions as he applies torque with the wrench to keep them in place.

Keeping his skills sharp over the years pays off, and with a turn of the wrench the door opens. His body shivers, unable to stay still. He leans forward, pushing the door in. There she sits on her royal‐purple cushion. He steps in, and pushes the door against its frame. A pair of curtains cover the window at the end of the room. Only a fragment of the light pierces the purple cloth, but it’s enough for him.

His smile widens as he steps closer to Altaria. She is so adorable. For a moment he is lost in thought, able only to stare at her.

Everyone says it’s wrong. But to him, it’s the most natural thing in the world, the most beautiful thing in life. Nobody understands, but so what. There was a time when he lived in denial, but that is in the past. He has made his decision, and he is ready.

Only she is… What does it matter. He looks at the carpet, gritting his teeth. It wouldn’t mean anything to her anyway. It’s one‐sided, it can only be. Even if it hurts, and it does, he has to accept it.

He clenches his fists as a tightness overtakes his throat. His breathing becomes heavy and coarse. He steps away, pushing his hands against a chest of drawers. The dark wood glows softly in the moonlight. He whispers, “Altaria, you will never understand how much you mean to me.”

The rounded edge presses against his palms. “Before I met you…” He looks up, staring at the wall. “…I was my own prisoner, trapped in a world with nothing to see. An endless sea of darkness with nowhere to go, nothing to be found.”

He feels tears forming in his eyes, and lifts a hand to brush them away. “Altaria, you are my light.”

He turns his head to see Altaria in the corner of his eye. There she sits in silence, opening her beak only to breathe.

With a firm turn of the head, he looks straight at her and whispers, “Altaria… Even if it doesn’t mean anything to you.” He looks away, before continuing, “Let them think I’m a fool, a degenerate, whatever. I will not hold back.”

He gets on his knees in front of her. His breathing is rapid, but his mind is focused. He closes his eyes, unable to look at her. He whispers, “Altaria, I—”.

A cooling gust of wind blows into the room, its whistling interrupting him. He pauses for a moment to calm his breathing.

He whispers to her, “I wish to be with you always. Altaria… I love you.”

He opens his eyes. Her golden body is shining in the moonlight. He looks to the window, his eyes widening. The curtains have parted, forming a gap, letting light hit her directly. He looks back. Slowly she opens her eyes. He leans backward, his heart throbbing. She looks him directly in the eyes.

Hastily he turns around, afraid someone’s there. The white door stands in place as before, the space between them is empty. He turns back, expecting her to only have been a dream. Their eyes meet, and he’s unable to move a muscle in all his tension.

Did she hear him, could it be… she understood him?

* * *

Only the truth was, he had betrayed her. Betrayed everything he should ever have stood for. He had not truly loved her.

If he had truly loved her, he would have put her above everything. In reality, he had given in to envy and wrath. Even more shamefully, perhaps he had even given way to his own lust for her.

He had failed Altaria, failed himself. He had failed the one who taught him. The time had come to face the truth. He turned to lie on his back, and closed his eyes. His thoughts returned to a distant past, to a memory from nearly two decades ago.

_I understand now._

_It was you who closed the door. You wanted me to live._

_We were meant to escape together. Only you couldn’t make it._

_Your screams haunt me to this day. But you taught me what love meant._

_I thought I could never love like you did. I thought I could never be as you were._

_You left me alone. You wanted me to survive._

_Turns out I was right. I could never learn to love as you did._

_I have failed you, as I failed the one I thought I loved._

_I’m sorry, mother._

He reached underneath his jacket, his hand searching for a solution. His fingers curled around the plastic grip, its rough texture a comfort. With a tug, the holster gave up its weapon.

He raised the weapon into view. It was almost as if there were droplets of water forming on the barrel. He turned his head, thinking he could hear sounds from the distance. A cacophony of chaos, tones mixing together without harmony. Just as him, acting without understanding.

* * *

He has already killed one. The path of a killer. So be it. He wouldn’t let anyone frighten Altaria again.

Only trusted individuals have access to the backstage corridor. Altaria is safely locked in the unmarked room. She needs to be calm and ready for the night’s performance.

He has to make sure those lowlife losers don’t try anything.

* * *

Only one task remained to take care of. His life no longer had meaning. There was no purpose in going on.

* * *

He pushes the key in the lock. Why does it feel so strange? Somehow weak. Why is the door ajar?

His heart rate climbs as he examines the door. It seems closed. He turns the key, but its movement is jagged and rigid. He loses his temper and grabs the door by its edge, yanking it open.

It’s dark. Why is it so fucking dark? He left the lights on. He would never leave Altaria in the dark. “Altaria, where are you?” he calls out to her, stepping further in. His voice is gruff, like a growl.

The fucking light switch, where is it? His hand searches for the button against the wall. _For fuck’s sake._ His fingertips feel nothing but the coldness of the wall, until at last they find the familiar plastic. He presses the switch and the room lights up.

Empty. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists. Only her favorite, royal‐purple cushion. His body tenses up. Unable to think, he can only stand still. It cannot be. Where is she?

* * *

Letting his arm descend to his side, he pushed the barrel against his head. The metal felt cool, the pressure relaxing. He closed his eyes, imagining the one he loved.

Her cheeks white and pure, like snow topping the mountains of untamed wilderness. Her perfectly round head, topped by a pair of plumes. Her eyes, lively and joyous, radiating her loving affection. Her beak, letting out the most loving of tones.

_Altaria…_

With one final thought occupying his mind, he pulled back the trigger and ended his life.

_Forgive me._


End file.
